The Crippled God (69 page)

He snorted. ‘Like a royal vault, she is.’

‘You’re not good-looking enough. And you smell.’

‘I smell like a Gilk White Face Barghast, woman, and you’ve hardly complained.’

She rose, straightening her tunic. ‘I am now.’

‘Your mother is growing ever more protective of her daughters,’ he said, scratching with both hands at his beard. ‘Spirits below, this dust gets everywhere.’

Spultatha slipped past him without another word. He watched her head off into the night, and then made his way round the royal train’s equipment tent. Opposite waited the queen’s tent, two guards stationed out front.

‘Is she ready for me?’ Spax asked as he approached.

‘Too late for that,’ one replied, and the other grunted a laugh. They stepped clear to allow him passage. He went inside, and then through to the inner chamber.

‘Can she walk?’

‘Highness?’

Abrastal drank down the last of her wine, lifted up the goblet. ‘My third in a row. I’m not looking forward to this, and having to listen to one of my own daughters squeal like a myrid with a herder’s hand up its arse has hardly improved my mood.’

‘She’s untutored in the ways of real men,’ Spax responded. ‘Where do you want me for this?’

Abrastal gestured to one side of the tent. ‘There. Weapons drawn.’

The Warchief raised his brows, but said nothing as he walked over to where she had indicated.

‘This will be a kind of gate,’ Abrastal said, folding her legs as she settled back in her chair. ‘Things could come through, and to make matters worse it’ll be hard to make out what we’re seeing – there will be a veil between us. If the situation sours, it can be torn, either by whatever is on the other side, or by you going through.’

‘Going through? Highness—’

‘Be quiet. You are in my employ and you will do what you’re told.’

Swamp shit, we really did put her in a foul mood. Oh well
. He drew his long knives and crouched down. ‘If I’d known I would have brought my axes.’

‘What do your shamans tell you, Spax, about your Barghast gods?’

He blinked. ‘Why, nothing, Firehair. Why should they? I’m the Warchief. I deal in matters of war. All that other rubbish is for them to worry over.’

‘And are they?’

‘Are they what?’

‘Worried.’

‘They’re warlocks, they’re always worried.’

‘Spax.’

He grimaced. ‘The Barghast gods are idiots. Like sixteen children locked in a small room. For days. They’ll start eating each other next.’

‘So there are sixteen of them?’

‘What? No. That was a just a number I threw out – spirits below, Firehair, you keep taking me literally – I’m Spax, remember? I make things up, to entertain myself. You want me to talk about my gods? Well, they’re worse than me. They probably made
themselves
up.’

‘What do your shamans say?’

Spax scowled. ‘I don’t care what they say!’

‘Is it that bad?’

He shrugged. ‘Could be our gods suddenly get smart. Could be they realize that their best chance of surviving what’s to come is to keep their heads down. Could be they can cure the world’s ills with one sweet kiss, too.’ He held up his knives. ‘But I ain’t holding my breath.’

‘Don’t pray to them, Spax. Not tonight, not now. Do you understand me?’

‘I can’t even remember the last time I prayed to them, Highness.’

Abrastal poured herself another goblet of wine. ‘Grab those furs over there. You’ll need them.’

Furs?
‘Firehair, I—’

A stain darkened the space in the centre of chamber, and an instant later bitter cold air spilled out, frosting everything in sight. The Warchief’s lungs burned with every breath. Pottery stacked against one wall cracked, then shattered, and what it contained fell out in frozen lumps.

Through pained eyes, Spax saw shapes take form within the gelid stain. In the forefront, facing Abrastal, was a short, curvaceous woman – young, he thought, though it was difficult to be sure.
Felash. Is that her? Yes, must be her, who else would it be?
Upon her left stood a taller woman, though the only detail he could make out was what appeared to be a glittering diamond set in her brow, from which extraordinary colours now flowed.

Then a shape coalesced to the Fourteenth Daughter’s right. Unnaturally tall, dressed in black, the hint of chain armour beneath the slashed cloak. A hood was drawn back, revealing a gaunt, demonic face. Stained tusks rose from the lower jaw, thrusting outward like curved knives. The pits of its eyes were dark.
A damned Jaghut. Leaving me to wonder just how many more of my childhood terrors are real?

The Jaghut seemed to study Abrastal for a time, and then the head turned and Spax found himself staring into those lifeless pits. Withered lips peeled back, and the apparition spoke. ‘
Barghast
.’ Voiced as if it was an insult.

Spax growled a low curse. Said, ‘I am Gilk. We have many enemies, all of whom fear us. You are welcome to be one of them, Jaghut.’

‘Mother,’ said the daughter. ‘I see you are well.’

Abrastal tipped her goblet. A solid lump of wine fell out. ‘Is this really necessary? I think I am frozen to my chair.’

‘Omtose Phellack, Mother – the Hold’s ancient king has returned. He stands beside me.’

‘He’s dead.’

The Jaghut faced the queen again. ‘I have heard better insults from my pets, mortal.’ He then pointed at Spax. ‘Speaking of pets, what do you intend to do with yours?’

‘A precaution,’ Abrastal said, shrugging.

The other woman, the one Spax did not know, then spoke. ‘Highness, only a few days ago this Jaghut here bit off the face of a Forkrul Assail.’ She edged a step back to take in the Barghast. ‘Do not clash those blades, warrior – they will shatter.’

Felash said, ‘Mother, we have found a new ally in our … endeavours. The king of the Hold of Ice now stands with us.’

‘Why?’

The other woman said, ‘I don’t think they like the Forkrul Assail, Highness.’

‘You must be Captain Shurq Elalle,’ the queen said. ‘I have heard interesting things about you, but that will have to wait until another time. Fourteenth Daughter, are you once again upon the seas?’

‘We are. On a Ship of the Dead. You think
you’re
cold?’ One hand fluttered. ‘We’re less than two weeks from the Teeth.’

‘What of the Perish fleet?’

Felash shook her head. ‘No sign. We must assume they have arrived – whether a blockade now exists …’ she shrugged. ‘Mother, be careful. The Forkrul Assail know we are coming – all of us.
They know
.’

‘Can we maintain this line of communication?’

‘Not much longer,’ Felash replied. ‘Once we draw closer to the Assail’s demesne, their Hold will dominate.’

Spax snorted. ‘Even against the king of the Hold of Ice? Now, how pathetic is that?’

The Jaghut faced him once more. ‘When Draconus stepped on to this world, he missed a few of your kind underfoot. He has grown careless in his old age. When next you and I meet, Barghast, we shall have words on the matter.’

‘Have you a name, Jaghut?’ Spax asked. ‘I want to know who to curse. I want the name of this miserable rotting carcass I’m looking at right now.’

The mouth stretched once more. ‘Can you not guess, Barghast? As you squat shivering in my breath?’

Felash said, ‘Mother, are you sure you want to go on with this? Against the forces now gathering, we’re
nothing
.’

‘I think,’ said Abrastal, ‘the time has come to be more forthright regarding our allies here in the Wastelands. We seem to have acquired a force of, well, lizards. Large, powerful, well armed. They call themselves the K’Chain Che’Malle, and they are commanded by two Malazans—’

She stopped them, since the Jaghut had begun laughing.

The sound reached into Spax’s bones until he felt them rattling like frozen sticks. His glare, fixed upon the Jaghut, suddenly widened.
His breath? But how – no, yes, see that cloak, see that cowl
. He straightened, chest swelling. ‘I have never feared you,’ he said.

Hood ceased laughing, regarded the Barghast. ‘Of course not, Warchief Spax of the Gilk. But then, once I am known to you, fear is irrelevant, isn’t it?’

‘Especially when you’re already dead!’

One long, bony finger lifted into view, wagged at the Warchief. ‘Ah, but how would you know? Imagine dying, and then finding yourself asking, “What now?” The day you stand on the wrong side of death, Spax, come and find me, and in the bitter truth of equals you and I shall discuss
real
fear.’ Hood laughed a second time.

Moments later all three apparitions were gone. The biting chill remained, mists roiling in the chamber. Queen Abrastal fixed Spax with a hard stare. ‘What was all that about, Warchief?’

He scowled. ‘I don’t for an instant doubt that captain’s claim. Bit off an Assail’s face, did he? I’m surprised it wasn’t its whole damned head.’ Spax fought off another shiver. ‘Too many swords in the fire, Highness. Things are going to break. Badly.’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘More than I dare to count.’ Breath gusted from his nostrils. ‘It’s time to offer counsel, whether you like it or not. I know you are committed to this venture, and nothing I can say will dissuade you – we’re about to wage war against the Forkrul Assail.’ He studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘You’ve wanted that for some time. I see the truth of that. But listen, there are times when a course decided upon gathers a power of its own. A momentum that sweeps us all along. Firehair, this river we’re on seems calm enough for now. But the current grows and grows, and soon even if we seek the safety of shore, it will be too late.’

‘A fine speech, Spax. The Gilk Warchief advises caution. So noted.’ Abruptly she rose. ‘My Fourteenth Daughter is not one you could tumble behind the equipment tent. That said, I do not think she invited that undead Jaghut into our alliance – rather, I suspect she had little say in the matter.’

‘And the current grows bold.’

She eyed him. ‘Journey to the Letherii camp. Inform Prince Brys of this turn of events.’

‘Now?’

‘Now.’

‘What of the Perish?’

The queen frowned, and then shook her head. ‘I will not see one of our few fit horses run to death just to bring word to the Grey Helms. I don’t know what they’re trying to prove with that torrid pace—’

‘I do.’

‘Indeed? Very well, Spax, let’s hear it.’

‘They seek to make us irrelevant, Firehair. You, Brys, and especially the K’Chain Che’Malle.’

‘They want the glory for themselves?’

‘Shield Anvil Tanakalian,’ he said, adding a disgusted grunt. ‘He’s young, with too much to prove. But that is not what is bothering me,
Highness. I no longer trust his motives – I cannot say if the goal he seeks is at all related to the Adjunct’s. These Grey Helms, they are the avatars of war, but it is not the war between peoples that they serve, it is the war of nature against humans.’

‘Then he is a greater fool than we can even imagine,’ Abrastal said. ‘He cannot win that war. Nature cannot win – it never could.’

Spax was silent for a moment, and then in a low voice he said, ‘I believe that it is the other way round, Highness. This is a war
we
cannot win. All of our victories are temporary – no, illusory. In the end we lose, because, even in winning, we still
lose
.’

Abrastal walked from the chamber. Brows lifting, Spax followed her.

Outside, under the green-lit night sky, past the two guards.

She continued down the centre aisle between the officers’ tents, out past the kitchen camps, the offal pits, the latrine rows.
Like peeling back the orderly façade, down now among the foul rubbish of our leavings. Ah, Firehair, I am not so blind as to miss the meaning of this journey
.

When at last she halted, they were beyond the northeast pickets. For Spax to make his way to the distant Letherii encampment, he need only strike out northward, angling slightly to the west. He could see the fitful glow from the prince’s position.
Like us, they’re running out of things to burn
.

Abrastal faced east, to where just beyond a ribbon of white bones the Glass Desert was a sea of sharp, glittering stars lying as if scattered in death, bathed in emerald light. ‘The Wastelands,’ she murmured.

‘Highness?’

‘Who won here, Spax?’

‘As we can see. No one won.’

‘And in the Glass Desert?’

He squinted. ‘It hurts the eye, Firehair. Blood was spilled there, I think. Immortal blood.’

‘Would you throw the crime at the feet of humans?’

He grunted. ‘Now you split reeds, Highness. It is the wilful mind that is Nature’s enemy, for out of that wilfulness comes arrogance—’

‘And contempt. Warchief, it seems we will all face a terrible choice, then. Are we worth saving? You? Me? My children? My people?’

‘Do you now waver in your resolve?’